You see, PH had it all planned out. He wanted the Canucks to go to game 6, because otherwise we would miss the party of the century. Can you imagine, the Canucks win the Stanley Cup and WE’RE IN NOVA SCOTIA?

Our plane was due to arrive in Vancouver at around 1:30. PH was going to gather a couple of friends and head downtown, so he could stand in the crowd and roar with triumph as the Canucks secured their final win. He has never forgotten the feeling in the crowd when he attended the 2010 gold medal hockey game, and this was his chance to recreate it.

So we land in Toronto, and find our gate. Then a Westjet employee makes his way to the desk and announces that our flight has been cancelled.

That’s right, not delayed. CANCELLED.

We had sudden flashbacks to our return from our honeymoon, when we were stranded at Gatwick airport when Zoom Airlines began to fold. That time we ended up staying over night, and only by sheer luck managed to finagle our way onto another plane the next day, no thanks to the airline that stranded us there.

I was bringing lobster home for a friend who is taking care of Beloved Dog and putting up with his chicken-bone-eating habit, and I was thinking “Oh, man, what if the lobster don’t make it??”

Thankfully, though, Westjet is NOT Zoom. I have been an enthusiastic fan of Westjet ever since I first flew with them (when I had a whole row to myself, and the captain told us a Newfie joke over the loudspeaker), and they didn’t let me down today. Unlike Zoom, they told us WHY the flight had been cancelled: the plane had been struck by lightning and was not safe to fly.

Fair enough.

Then they gave us 30 dollars in meal vouchers (Zoom only gave us 8 pounds, which was about enough to buy a bag of crisps for each of us from the expensive Gatwick concessions counter) and got us on another flight leaving in a couple of hours.

Which was great for the lobster, but not so great for our schedule.

We ended up arriving at 4 pm, only an hour before the game started. By the time we got our bags, loaded them into the car, and fought traffic all the way home, it was three minutes into the game, and according to the radio, the Bruins were already up 2-0. PH suffers from that sports-fan belief that one has to be watching the game in order for one’s team to be successful, so his face was grim as we pulled into the driveway.

We unloaded the car, got into the house, and turned on the TV.

The game was 4-0. In the four or five minutes of game time that PH had missed due to delayed planes, traffic, fate, etc, good old Bobby Lu had allowed 4 goals. FOUR!

PH did not go downtown. The Canucks did not bring home the Stanley cup.

There we were, in Tim Hortons, which could have been any Tim Hortons in Canada. But it wasn’t any Tim Hortons. No, we were in a NOVA SCOTIA SMALL TOWN Tim Hortons.

So I’m munching on my apple fritter and Babby is chewing on a piece of bread from my BLT, and he starts making eyes at the old lady sitting behind us, offering her his gummy bread.

Babby is a massive flirt with the ladies and it is his newest trick to entice them over to him by removing food from his mouth and holding it out to them with an alluring smile. They always laugh, and smile back at him, and politely decline the slimy lure, and he returns it to his mouth with a resigned expression.

This lady was no different from the others. I exchanged a smile with her as she gathered up the detritus from her meal and walked towards the garbage can, passing us on the way. She asked the usual questions (“how old is he?” “does he have any teeth yet?” “Is he a good sleeper?”) and I gave the usual answers (“nine months” “yes, two on the bottom,” and “oh hell, no”).

“Wall, he’s a reel sweetie-poi,” she said in a thick Maritime accent. I thanked her.

“Oi have to get to the hospital naow,” she said conversationally as she moved towards the garbage. “Moi nointey two year oald husband broke his hip.”

“Wall, Oi’m going to go an see him naow, and hopefully Oi’ll be bringin’ him hoam!” she said again.

“I hope you do.”

“Oi WILL bring him hoam! Oi’m determined!”

She came closer and said confidingly, “Y’see, the docter was concerned, becuz he wuz on some heart medicayshuns. But I tole ‘im, I sez, “those wuzn’t foar his HEART, they wuz becuz he gets angshus. Cuz of hiz job that he had long ago, roight? He gets roight angshus an’ his heart starts goin’ that fast, but it ain’t hiz heart, it’s the anxiety, roight? Becuz of hiz job…”

She set her plate and garbage down on my table and began to tell me her husband’s entire medical history in detail.

Her green eyes held mine as I sat and tried to listen, realizing she needed to tell someone, and for some reason, I was that someone.

Like a wedding guest in a Coleridge poem, I was destined to hear the entire tale.

And so the minutes ticked by as I was held hostage. It was difficult to maintain strict attention when I had a sandwich waiting to be eaten, in-laws expecting me at home, and a fussy Babby on my knee, but I did catch bits of the story.

“…and it wuz a pink pill,roight, like a salmon coloured pill, and it’s to slow daown the heart, only he had it cuz he wuz a foir-man fer so menny years, roight? And he would get roight tense, and he couldn’t breathe roight, and his heart would jest race, loik a panic attack, roight?”

“…So after the sergery the docter looks at his chart, and he seez that he wuz on this pill, and he sez ‘Oi didn’t know yer husband had a heart condishun’, only Oi sez ‘it wasn’t FOAR his heart…'”

“…so wen he woak up he didn’t know where he wuz, roight? He wuz scared. He thought maybe he wuz in a hospital after a foir, cuz he was a foir man for so menny years, so he panicked, roight? And he troid to cloimb right out of his bed, and he wuz jest owt a surgery, roight?”

“… an the docter, he sez he wuz lookin’ all arownd, and Oi sez, ‘yeah, he wuz lookin’ for me, see?”

“…So then Oi come in, and he seez me, and his arms go owt loik this, woid, loik a little boy holdin’ owt his arms to his mama…”

“…and they asked him if he knew where he wuz, and he sez ‘camping!” cuz we wuz supposed to go, roight, but then he broak his hip, and the RV new and everythin’…”

“…but he ain’t the same, with them new medicashuns hez on, he ain’t roight… Oi keep tellin’ the docter, ‘you let me bring ‘im hoam, and Oi’ll be the best pill yoo ever give ‘im!”

“I hope they send him home with you today,” I said, nodding. Finally, FINALLY, she gathered up her stuff again and put it in the trash. Then she told me,

“Oi’m going to get wun of them ramps bilt on the house, cuz he’ll have trubble getting up them steps fer a whoile. Of coarse, he’ll be a big baby when Oi bring ‘im hoam. Men always are,” she said with a twinkle.

“I’m sure you will, and I hope he gets well soon,” I said, trying to break eye contact politely. She started to head toward the door.

“Don’t yoo be feedin’ that baby lettis,” she called from the doorway, pointing at Babby who was happily gumming some of my BLT, “Moi sister in law she give ‘er baby a piece a apple, an she near ’bout choked on a liddle bit of apple skin!”

Just in the nick of time, too. We had finished at the Maritime Museum (where I had a great time with my niece and nephew – I’ve seen their exhibits many times, but the new tribute to being gay at sea was a lot of fun) and PH was on the verge of reluctantly abandoning me on the waterfront so he could get to Dartmouth in time for his nephews’ track and field events. But they messaged and said they were headed to the Economy Shoe Shop, so he dropped me off on Argyle St instead, making me promise to not let the internet strangers steal my kidneys.

I hung out there with Babby while a variety of scenarios played out in my head. They were going to change their minds at the last moment and decide to go to a restaurant on Quinpool or somewhere instead, and I would have a really long hike or would have to figure out the bus schedule. Or they would change restaurants and not even tell me.

OR, I decided, they would show up, but afterwards inform me that they were all going to Peggy’s Cove. I wouldn’t be able to come along because I didn’t have the car and car seat, and so would be left wandering disconsolately around the city with Babby in tow until my husband returned from Dartmouth at the end of the day.

Meanwhile Babby got fussy so I sat on a flower box and nursed him. Now, I have long since resigned myself to strangers seeing my boobas. I used to have a little nursing canopy for more public situations, but Babby now thinks that that is a great game of peekaboo, and any covering gets whipped off immediately. If there is one thing more awkward than showing everyone your booba, it’s desperately trying to cover your boobas but failing miserably. So I just haul ’em out without shame, because then at least I retain a semblance of dignity.

However, nursing on a public street while a hobo shuffled by periodically and commented on my baby’s big brains was a new experience.

Then they arrived – I recognized The Urban Cowgirl right away, because she posts pictures of herself in a variety of outfits, and I was quickly introduced to blondevixen, CO, So Dramatic, Too So Much Alex, AllieLG, MomofTwo, ATXGirl (aka The Squeaker), Darleya, and Sakura (who has published a REAL book and everything!). Of course, I knew OF them all from the Dooce Community, and had read their blogs, even, but meeting them in person is a strange feeling.

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We had a fun lunch at the Shoe Shop and then walked around Barrington St and Privateer’s Wharf. We missed Curiosity, so we brought her image with us!

at four thirty PH found me and after a round of hellos and goodbyes we packed Babby into the car and went home. Babby, who had not slept since 10 that morning, was so worked up that he babbled to us for a while (no doubt regaling his Daddy with tales about his day with the DoCo ladies) and showed no signs of settling down until he finally conked out after a hearty round of Old MacDonald.

I’m looking forward to meeting a bunch of fellow bloggers in Halifax tomorrow. Problem is, I don’t know where or when I’ll be able to find them, so my anxiety is acting up, especially since I’m nervous about meeting and socializing with new humans anyway.

I’ve been at my in-laws’ house the last few days, and they don’t have WiFi, so I couldn’t log into the Dooce Community or check my blog. So I haven’t been able to arrange anything with the rest of the DoHos, who are all partying together in Halifax right now.

I’ve given them my cell phone number so hopefully they’ll get in touch with me, preferably before my husband is due to dump me off (11:30 am or so) and go watch his nephews perform in some Very Important Sports Thing.

Quick post just so you know I’m alive! I miss PH, but we’re having a great time. Babby is getting increasingly mobile, although I’ve realized that all this time, when he’s been rocking on all fours, he hasn’t been trying to crawl; he has been trying to STAND.

Now he gets his feet under him and tries to stand up and invariable topples over backwards as he straightens his legs and reaches for the sky.

Pulling up on vertical objects is proving a more successful strategy, but he almost pulled a stool onto himself the other day. I managed to catch it at the last second.